


No, the OTHER Ophiuchus Troll.

by arcaneScribbler



Series: Player Count 8 + 2 [11]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Everyone lives, F/F, Fix-It, Gen, Post-Sburb, a sleeping cherub is unnatural, cherubs as trolls, does that count as, eh putting the tag anyway, how do tags work, post-victory, seriously though how disturbing must it be to a cherub to see a cherub sleep, they don't sleep, they switch off personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Calliope and you are a cherub. Soon, your name will be Callie Ohphee-Massis and you will be a troll. You just don't know that yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, the OTHER Ophiuchus Troll.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look, I'm not dead! Also, this goes with [Be the Ophiuchus Troll](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3660282) and is a companion piece in Callie's POV. Dunno if it'll end up longer later or just stay a standalone, but... yeah. Hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> **EDIT 12/09/2015:** Did a bit of rephrasing, including adding mentions of Mini Maplehoof, Jigsaw the stallion, and Siamese Snakemomdad/Siamese Snakedadmom.

=>

The first time Roxy finds you carefully styling yourself into the appearance of your trollsona, she doesn't make the mistake of assuming, of rushing in to comfort you, assure you that you are beaUtifUl just the way you are.

Instead, she smiles an inviting, wonderful smile, plops down next to you, and offers her assistance in your ongoing struggle to tame the wild white curls of your wig.

Roxy is wonderful. If cherubs could love, you are almost certain you would love her. Even so, she makes you so, so happy, happier than you've ever been. They all do, these wonderful humans and trolls with their unique, shining selves, so different from lonely days and nights on a dying world with nothing but the looming red of your brother and the broken conversation of back-and-forth notes and contested boundaries.

=>

You still feel ugly sometimes (often), you aren't going to lie to yourself and claim otherwise, but now that you're alive again, you've found reasons beyond comfort and coping to enjoy your trollsona.

You truly, genuinely like it.

You like the texture of the curly white hair.

You like the weight of the colourful candy-corn corkscrew horns.

You like the softness of the gloves, and the bright yellow of painted talons underneath. Nail polish is such a wonderful invention! (You still don't paint your hands often. Even without the pressure of potential retaliation from your brother, he was right about one thing: they tend to make a horrid mess.)

Most of all, you like the way the light grey of the paint covers up the (ugly, monstrous) green of your scaly skin and softens the harsh contours of your skull into something far more welcoming and lively. (How it lets you look in a mirror without seeing Caliborn's face just a scowl and slight shift of colour palette away.)

(And you like the possibility it gives, the chance to play pretend. A troll can socialize freely. A troll can feel things you can't. A troll isn't doomed to a future split between predomination and isolation.)

=>

Your chats with Hal about a human concept called 'dysphoria' prove quite enlightening.

=>

When you see your brother again, you do not see the monster that waits for you in the mirror.

(You remember the jarring sense of unfamiliarity that struck you when you saw Lord English in the flesh, the bone-deep certainty that _this was not your brother_  that made no sense for you to feel. You remember the look on his face in the breath between climax and conclusion, and the spark of recognition it brought with it, that, for a moment, you and Caliborn were, impossibly, seeing each other eye to eye, face to face.)

No, you do not see a monster. You see someone _suffering._

You see him asleep, unconscious, limp and helpless, _empty_  in a way a cherub with spiral-marked cheeks should never be, and it is _terrifying._

This is what it looks like for a cherub to be incomplete. This is what it looks like for there to be no Sarswapagus to assist with the transition between halves, for there to be no other half to transition to. (Do you look like that when you sleep?) It looks so... so... _wrong._  (So wrong, but there's something else there, too, something you can't name in the bags under his eyes and the shiver in his frame, something that makes you feel... jealous? Why would you feel jealous?)

You reach out to him without realizing, don't notice what you're doing until your yellow-painted talons click against the scales of his face and a jolt of something somewhere between pain and hunger makes you flinch away with an undignified yelp and the image of the spirals on his cheeks bleeding green burned into your eyes. (You force yourself to watch the red struggle its way back, focus on the guilt and concern and shove the dark, ugly primal urge to **_take him, predominate, win the game, win your survival_**  down as far as you can, and don't notice the spark of teal that darted across until later.)

=>

You take care not to let yourself touch him a second time.

=>

You're confused, at first, when you step through the Door. You'd worn your horns and wig for the sake of celebration, but you hadn't had time for more than your gloves, and none for paint, and...

"Why are they so heavy?"

You know you've spoken aloud when Gamzee laughs.

"Calm down, wicked sister. Looks like you up and got visited by a real motherfucking miracle is all."

What?

=>

You turn to look at him, both out of confusion and to give belated thanks for delaying his own return home to ferry your brother, and stop short when you see the sleeping individual in his arms.

The sleeping _troll_ in his arms.

=>

The Game, it seems, has deposited you in a place called a 'ranch,' a human environment for raising horses, which, judging by the glimpse of one you got on your way into the house, are not usually pocket-sized like Mini Maplehoof is, but that isn't important at the moment. You can always explore your new home later. Right now, you just need to find a mirror.

=>

Later that night, after the hectic flurry of cheering and pestering and videochatting and celebrations, sitting on the roof of the stables to watch Earth's moon rise with a particularly unruly stallion you are certain is meant for your brother occasionally neighing at you from below and a two-headed serpent lusus you already feel comfortable with coiled behind you as one part quiet companion and one part cozy backrest, you realize why you were jealous. You aren't anymore. Now... now you're just back to waiting for him to wake up.


End file.
